


When it rains, it pours (and there's nobody I'd rather share an umbrella with)

by Jenanigans1207



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Rain scenes, Romance, They figure it out eventually, and he says so, and she just wants them to figure it out, and what could be a better love confession than that, aziraphale chooses crowley over books, god ships the ineffable husbands, mild pining, or he would at least, post armageddon, soft, unbetad we fall like crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207
Summary: “You know,” Aziraphale begins, stepping out from under the tree and glancing back to make sure Crowley was coming with him. He was, which shouldn’t come as any sort of surprise. If Crowley wasn’t in step with Aziraphale, he was leading him off on some new adventure, showing him some new side of the world. Aziraphale didn’t know how to move forward without Crowley there at his side, didn’t want to know. “Many people consider rain to be romantic. There are loads of books about getting caught in the rain with the person you love.”-- Or:After all of their plans getting rained out, Crowley and Aziraphale start to think God is trying to tell them something.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81





	When it rains, it pours (and there's nobody I'd rather share an umbrella with)

**Author's Note:**

> So this morphed as I wrote it. It started out as a sort of 5 + 1 and turned into God using the rain to try and teach our lovable idiots a lesson. Ultimately it was pretty fun to write, though, and I hope you guys enjoy it!!

At first, Aziraphale didn’t even notice the rain.

He was sitting in the back of the bookshop, door shut and locked, pouring over his newest addition. The tapping of the rain against the glass window to his right was so soothing, it didn’t immediately register. He was flipping through the pages gently, eyes scanning the words as his glove-clad hands cradled the book tenderly on top of the table. He was so engrossed in his work that he had lost track of time entirely.

It often went this way— Aziraphale in the midst of his books while Crowley lounged on the settee behind him. Aziraphale had tried asking, once, what it was Crowley thought about while he sat quietly, but he had made some noncommittal noise and changed the subject without really answering. In truth, it didn’t really matter because Crowley seemed perfectly content to sit and think about whatever it is he liked to think about and Aziraphale was more than thrilled to have the company. And so they spent many nights in companionable silence, simply enjoying the comfort that came from being together.

Tonight had been one such night, their silence finally broken when Crowley had suggested getting dinner. More often than not, it was him keeping track of the time and making sure Aziraphale had everything he needed. Aziraphale had a tendency to lose himself in his work and had been known to go extended periods of time without taking even the slightest break. Technically speaking, being an ethereal being meant that he didn’t strictly _need_ breaks, but it was good for his corporeal form to take them, so he tried his best. Tonight was no exception to his normal, though— Aziraphale would have completely forgotten to eat if it had not been for Crowley. He’d paused his work just long enough to agree with Crowley on what they would be having for dinner and then had resumed pouring over his book, barely hearing the chime on the door when Crowley had walked out to go pick it up. 

After the world hadn’t ended, they had agreed to try and reserve the use of miracles for absolute necessities. It had taken some getting used to, but now Aziraphale found living the human way to be quite charming. He didn’t actually mind phoning up his favorite restaurants to place an order, and Crowley never complained about going out to pick up the food in person. And, truth be told, Aziraphale quite liked waiting for him at the front of the shop, unlocking the door when he got close and holding it open for him as he entered. It always seemed to fluster Crowley, just the tiniest amount, as he stuttered out something that sounded vaguely like a thank you. It was such a small moment, but it felt intimate somehow. Aziraphale had expected that feeling to go away the more they did it, but it never diminished or faded.

Aziraphale had also thought he would get used to letting Crowley into the shop— used to having him there day and night, only going home to water his plants from time to time— but he never did. It was always a thrill, greeting Crowley at the door with a broad smile, watching as he pulled his sunglasses off and seemed to relax the moment the door was shut behind him. He loved trailing Crowley through the shop, watching how he navigated the shelves with practiced ease.

Crowley had been to the shop a number of times through the centuries, of course, but there was something more permanent about this. It felt, dare he say, domestic, to some extent. They had given up their respective sides and done their best to distance themselves from them completely. They were living the human life, together, and it was charming and quaint and occasionally made Aziraphale’s heart flutter in his chest when he thought about it.

Aziraphale hadn’t realized that he’d stopped his reading, lost in thoughts of Crowley, until a loud clap of thunder finally startled him out of his focus and he glanced up and out the window, only to find the sidewalk utterly soaked, rain pouring down and dripping off of the awnings of the shops on the other side of the street. Most people had scattered, the few who remained huddling underneath whatever cover they can find. A few cars drive by slowly, but otherwise the world seems mostly still outside.

Aziraphale had always loved when it rained in the city. There was something so magical about it— about the way the lights glowed on the wet pavement and the way the rain seemed to soften the air around them. He loved sitting and watching the raindrops patter into the puddles outside, tracking the ripples with his eyes as they danced across the shallow water. Rain was relaxing to him, and it filled him with an overwhelming sense of fondness. 

He remembered the days before rain, but most importantly he remembered the first rain the Earth had ever seen. He remembered it so clearly— standing on the top of the Eastern gate, watching Adam and Eve trek across the desert, raising his wing to protect Crowley from the first drops of the very first storm. He hadn’t known it then, the course his life would take in the next six-thousand-odd years, but he remembered thinking of that first rain as a sort of promise, as the first indication that his life was going to be far more grand than he had previously imagined.

There had been many rains in the span of his life thus far and he certainly didn’t remember all of them— he didn’t remember half of them, not even a _quarter_ of them, surely— but he was certain that he’d always loved it the same. No matter which area of the world he was in, what task he’d been assigned or who his company was, he had always enjoyed the rain. Still, if pressed— not that he would be, he thought mildly— he would have to admit that this, here, tonight, would be his ideal way to spend a rainy evening. 

He had seen the rain cascade across open expanses of fields and pelt the side of grand castles. He had watched the rain carry away an entire arc full of people and animals, had turned his back on the way the rain had been less forgiving to the locals. He had seen the rain through it all, and he would choose to live nights like this over and over again. He would choose to stay seated in the back of his bookshop, cozy and warm while his longest and dearest companion sits across from him, beautiful eyes bared to the soft light of the shop while they talked and laughed together, growing closer by the second. If he could have nights like this every time it rained, Aziraphale was certain that he would look forward to eternity, would be able to shelve all of his fears for the future because nights like this are nights that make Aziraphale feel invincible. Or, at the very least, nights like these remind Aziraphale that there are good things in the world, things worth fighting for, things worth loving. Things he won’t let anybody take away from him.

It was this train of thought that Aziraphale was following when he noticed one brave soul out amongst the rain, walking stubbornly through the droplets as if they’re not even there at all. Aziraphale spots him immediately, shock of red hair distinctly visible against the generally drab backdrop of the area. Crowley is at the far end of the street, at least a block away still, arms piled high with various carryout bags, shoulders hunched against the rain as he trudges along the sidewalk. A small smile found Aziraphale’s lips immediately as he watched Crowley move slowly through the rain. There’s something charming about it— something sweet in the knowledge that Crowley is caught in this storm for Aziraphale.

Another crack of thunder sounded, a streak of lightning illuminating Crowley as he continued to approach. Immediately, Aziraphale was gently closing the book in front of him, slipping his gloves off and leaving both things stacked gently on his desk. He did his best to leave his thoughts behind with the book as he crossed to the front of the store, grabbing an umbrella from the bin he kept just inside the door and unlocking the shop. He hadn’t realized when Crowley left that rain was even in the forecast or he would’ve insisted on using a miracle. Crowley would’ve insisted on them just ordering for delivery, though, but Aziraphale was against people coming to the bookshop after hours for any reason whatsoever, so he would’ve been able to use a miracle guilt-free. Aziraphale threw the door open wide, putting the umbrella out into the rain first and opening it, giving himself a dry space to step into. The wind blew by, trying to tear the umbrella from his hands and it took him a few moments to regain control of it before he was off, hustling down the sidewalk towards Crowley.

Crowley spotted him instantly— the two of them had always been good at that: keeping tabs on each other, always knowing where the other one was, finding each other in every situation— his eyebrows rising over the rims of his glasses in surprise as he watched Aziraphale approach. Aziraphale didn’t need to see his eyes to be able to read his expression clearly. He was wet, but not utterly soaked because his hair still managed to at least make an attempt at defying gravity. Still, a few pieces hung down limply, curling around the edges of his face and framing his sharp jawline. Aziraphale made himself focus on something else.

“Out for a stroll in this lovely weather, Angel?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale finally closed the distance between them, enveloping Crowley in the safety of the umbrella.

“Yes, well, I couldn’t let you enjoy it entirely alone, you see.” Aziraphale smiled warmly at Crowley as they fell into step with each other. “This is my favorite weather, you know.”

In truth, Aziraphale wasn’t going to be able to do much to benefit Crowley now. He could clearly see the dots on the shoulder of Crowley’s jacket where the rain had been kissing him, their bags of takeout starting to go limp in Crowley’s arms. Being under an umbrella now wasn’t going to keep Crowley dry, it was simply going to keep him from getting _more_ wet. Crowley, though, didn’t point any of that out. He simply walked besides Aziraphale, close enough that their shoulders and elbows brushed and bumped from time to time, sending an electric jolt all the way to Aziraphale’s spine with each gentle touch.

“Right,” Crowley finally said after a moment, but he was clearly happy to have Aziraphale at his side.

They walked slowly— slower than Crowley had been marching down the street before, both content to enjoy the city that had seemed to empty just for them. Aziraphale glanced sideways at Crowley to see him looking comfortably at ease, strolling along casually next to Aziraphale, looking at the town around them. All at once, it felt like the world was made entirely for them, like the city existed for them and them alone and nobody else was there to see them. It felt like they were in their own bubble, away from the prying eyes of anyone who might be looking and Aziraphale felt the magic in the atmosphere triple at the thought. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks mildly, offering Crowley a smile when he glances over. “I love the city in the rain.”

“So you’ve said.” Crowley replies quietly, his voice the intimate sort of whisper he has reserved for only Aziraphale over the years.

“Have I?” Aziraphale muses, grinning, his words from only a few moments before echoing in his head. “Well, some things are worth repeating.”

That earns a quiet chuckle from Crowley next to him which he tries to cover up by shifting the bags in his arms. Aziraphale reaches out and takes one of them, cradling it tenderly against his chest and finding that his heart feels the fullest it’s probably ever felt in all six-thousand years that it’s been beating. 

(Well, technically it’s a new heart since Adam gave him a new corporeal body, but he knows his old heart never felt this light or happy, either.)

Another bout of wind blows by, bringing the rain under their umbrella. Crowley scoots closer to Aziraphale and Aziraphale tilts the umbrella just so in an attempt to stop the rain from soaking Crowley an further.

“Angel,” Crowley admonishes, his now free hand reaching up to grip the umbrella handle and tilt the umbrella the opposite way, “You’re getting wet.”

“So are you, my dear!” Aziraphale replies instantly, sliding his hand up further to gain better control of the umbrella.

“I’m already wet.” Crowley points out, not unkindly. 

He starts to say something else but the words seem to die in his throat as Aziraphale slips his hand overtop of Crowley’s, trying to regain control of the umbrella. Unintentionally they both stop walking, facing each other. If the world had existed only for them earlier, time was now standing still around them, waiting with baited breath for something to happen. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and immediately wished that he could see his beautiful eyes. Still, the light dusting of pink across his cheeks was a delightful sight.

Enraptured and entirely unable to stop himself— which often seemed to be the case for Aziraphale when he was around Crowley— Aziraphale shifted the bag of food to his hand holding the umbrella, using his other to reach up and tenderly brush away a piece of wet hair from Crowley’s face, his fingers gentle along his jaw. There’s a feeling building to a crescendo between them, growing larger with each passing second. Aziraphale can feel it, tangible and real in the scarce space between them. He thinks he might act on the feeling, thinks he’s powerless to do anything _but_ act on the feeling—

A car speeds by then, fast enough to rival even Crowley’s driving, and suddenly both Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves completely soaked, dripping wet as the car races through a puddle and sprays them both with water.

Crowley is immediately seething, his hand out from underneath Aziraphale’s and reaching out in a familiar gesture before Aziraphale can do anything to stop him. Aziraphale, though, simply laughs. He lowers the umbrella, closing it now that it has absolutely no hope of being beneficial to either of them, and laughs as the water drips down the back of his neck and under his collar. 

“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says breathlessly, feeling truly alive for one of the very first times in six-thousand years. “This human life we’re living, I mean.”

“Perfect?” Crowley repeated incredulously, looking at Aziraphale as if he must have lost his mind. “Angel, we’re _dripping_.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed with another warm smile. “We certainly are.”

Crowley waits a moment for Aziraphale to say something more, to elaborate on this sudden giddiness he’s displaying, but Aziraphale makes absolutely no move to do such, so Crowley lets go it. He turns towards the bookshop again, mumbling something about how they need to hurry before their food itself ends up soaked and cold. Aziraphale follows happily behind him, thinking again about this mortal life they’ve chosen to live and how it’s full of surprises. He wonders, briefly, how he went so long without these sorts of experiences and then realizes that he doesn’t care because he’s getting to experience moments like this now, and he’s getting to experience them with Crowley. 

As he locks the door behind them, he watches Crowley kick off his soaking shoes and peel off his wet jacket, discarding his glasses on a nearby bookshelf. Aziraphale is reminded again that he would live nights exactly like this every day for the rest of eternity if he could.

* * *

The weather does not lighten up in the next few days. In fact, it rains pretty continuously throughout them; a steady patter against the window and a reason for Aziraphale to keep his sign flipped to CLOSED. 

Crowley bemoans the weather for the first day before declaring that he’s simply not putting up with it. He insists that the only thing to do amidst such dreary days is to take a nap to pass the time. Once Aziraphale promises to wake him up when the weather changes, he promptly falls asleep on the settee and stays that way for about three days. Aziraphale busies himself with his books, cataloguing his newest additions and reading the few he’d been putting off for a few years by this point. He steals glances at Crowley from time to time and pauses occasionally to cover him in a blanket or put a stray limb more firmly on the couch so he doesn’t go tumbling off the edge. It’s a nice, peaceful three days, but it’s quieter than Aziraphale would like. So he’s thrilled when the sun finally comes out and he’s able to wake Crowley from his nap.

“Darling,” Aziraphale reaches for his shoulder gently, giving him a small shake. “My dearest Crowley, wake up. The sun is shining!”

Crowley grumbles beneath him, shifting on the couch and blinking his eyes against the light. It takes a moment for his gaze to focus on Aziraphale— who has not made any attempt of removing his hand from Crowley’s shoulder— before he slurs out a sleepy, “Angel?”

Aziraphale feels his heart swell in his chest at the sleepy edge to Crowley’s voice, feels the familiar bone-deep ache of affection for the demon on the couch before him. “The rain has stopped. I was thinking we might have a picnic.”

Crowley stretches his long limbs which forces Aziraphale to finally take his hand back and straighten up. He watches idly as Crowley finally sits up and glances over his shoulder at the window behind him. The sidewalk is still damp— the sun having been out for a few hours now, but struggling to make up for the days of pure rain— but the sky is clear and blue and the world looks bright. In the quietness of his bookshop, Aziraphale had considered waking Crowley the moment the rain had lessened to a light drizzle but had refrained for fear of waking his friend for a false alarm.

It was strange to him, he had realized as he’d closed his book and fought off the urge to wake Crowley, that he no longer liked the silence of his bookshop. For centuries he had cherished the moments when it was simply him, alone in the back of his bookshop, nobody around to potentially interrupt his work. But now, if he were being truthful with himself— which was something he was now _allowed_ to do, even if he found it wildly difficult to do still— he much preferred his bookshop with the quiet shufflings of Crowley adjusting his position on the couch, or the quiet hum of the music Crowley had put on as a sort of backdrop. It was now hard for him to sit in his shop in utter silence because it made him feel alone.

“I could do for a picnic,” Crowley agreed, turning his gaze back to Aziraphale. There was still a soft edge to his gaze that made Aziraphale think he wasn’t fully awake yet. He looked gentler, happier. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would think that it was actually possible for his heart to break clean through his ribs, reaching for Crowley itself, nestling into his chest and finding a home beating alongside his own heart. “Some fresh air might be nice.”

“Exactly my thoughts!” Aziraphale takes a step back from the couch to put some distance between them. “I’ve already packed a basket.”

In the days that Crowley had been asleep, Aziraphale had spent a fair amount of time examining the moment between them in the rain and trying to place his finger on the feeling that had been electric in the space between them. (Trying to place a name to the feeling that had been simmering there, just below the surface for six-thousand years, really, but he’d avoided acknowledging that for this long and old habits were hard to break). Now, Aziraphale had read a lot of books in his long life, and this included many romance novels. He was fairly certain he had a clear understanding of just what that feeling had been and where that moment might have led had they not been interrupted. And, as soon as he’d puzzled all of that out, he immediately tamped down thoughts of the moment, shoving them to the back of mind and refusing to think about them.

Things between the two of them had always come naturally. It had been as easy as breathing, being close to Crowley and cherishing every moment they had together. It wasn’t something Aziraphale had needed to _learn_ to do. He had trusted Crowley from the moment they met— likely against his better judgement as an angel, but certainly to his great benefit over the years— and never really looked back. It was because of this natural air to their relationship that they’d never really talked _about_ their relationship.

After the world hadn’t ended, Crowley had come to the bookshop one evening and simply hadn’t left. It had been a completely unspoken decision between the two of them, a conversation that they didn’t even need to have— as many things between them were. And so, Aziraphale had shoved these thoughts to the back of his mind and vowed never to breathe a word of them. If things were about to head the way he assumed they were going, they would happen naturally, without him making a fool of himself as he stumbled over his words. 

(Words, he had learned, were a funny thing. He had practically made a living of studying the words of other men but couldn’t, for the life of him, string them together in a way that accurately described his own feelings.)

“Right, well then.” Crowley finally stood from the couch, drawing up to his full height. “We should head off.”

They gathered the supplies that Aziraphale had already packed in anticipation and an attempt to occupy the time between the rain stopping and when he felt like it was appropriate to wake Crowley up and headed out to the Bentley. Crowley still drove much the same— that is to say entirely too fast for Aziraphale’s liking. In fact, he liked it even less now because getting discorporated while they no longer had an allegiance to their respective ex-head offices would be an even bigger inconvenience than it had been in the past. Still, he bit back any criticisms and instead clutched the picnic basket in his lap tightly. If Crowley noticed— and Aziraphale assumed that he did because Crowley was always noticing everything, especially about him— he did not comment. It was just as well, honestly. Like it or not, this was a part of their unspoken routine over the years.

It wasn’t until Crowley parked the car that Aziraphale realized that they hadn’t decided on a park for their picnic, but that Crowley had made the decision entirely on his own. Aziraphale climbed out of the Bentley, still clutching the picnic basket and blanket as he looked around. It was not a park that they frequented at any point in history, but it was one that Aziraphale recognized well enough. It was on the beaten path, a small park along one of the main roads in town that seemed to be utterly empty every time they drove by, despite the fact that it was in such a highly trafficked area.

As every other time, the park was empty now, the fountain in the center putting on a beautiful display for nobody. Crowley was watching Aziraphale closely from the other side of the Bentley, his door still open in case he needs to immediately get back in and drive them to a new park. He doesn’t, though, because Aziraphale immediately loves this park and happily takes off into it to determine the exact right spot for their blanket. He hears Crowley shut the door behind him and a moment later, Crowley and his long legs catch up to him, falling in step beside him as they move around the fountain and away from the main road. The other side of the park slopes down gently, offering a view of the little village below. It’s a beautiful sight and Aziraphale stops to stare down at it with a smile for a moment.

“What a lovely surprise.” Aziraphale turns his smile to Crowley who is steadfastly looking anywhere but back at Aziraphale.

“Er, well, you know.” Crowley tries, feigning nonchalance that Aziraphale can tell he absolutely does not feel. “Less people.”

“Just us.” Aziraphale replies in a way that is meant to agree with Crowley, but it conveys and entirely different feeling and suddenly the atmosphere around them shifts.

It starts much smaller than last time, that feeling. But it’s there between them, shooting up Aziraphale’s arm as their fingers brush when they begin to unfold the blanket. It’s there when they set the basket down and take their seats on the blanket, close enough that they bump elbows and knees on occasion. It’s there the entire time, and Aziraphale forces himself to stop from pointing it out.

“Wow, Angel.” Crowley murmurs as he finally flips open the top of the picnic basket and looks inside. 

Aziraphale had spared no luxury, filling it to the brim with all of his favorites. He’d also snuck in there the very few things he’d ever seen Crowley eat over the centuries, just in case he were feeling a bit peckish today. The odds are slim at best and Aziraphale is aware of that, but he’d never want to deny Crowley any opportunity— not anymore, not again. This picnic is for both of them, and he wanted to make that clear.

“There’s also wine in there.” Aziraphale replies, reaching into the basket and pulling out a half of a sandwich. He smiles as he watches Crowley rummage around the completely full basket. “Somewhere in there.”

In an attempt to find the wine, Crowley begins pulling everything out and setting it along the blanket. He makes a noise somewhere in the back of his throat as he pulls out one of the fruit tarts that Aziraphale had packed. “Is this…?”

“From Paris, yes.” Aziraphale replies, before quickly adding. “Well, not _from_ Paris, but the same tart.”

“Angel,” Crowley says affectionately, looking at the tart in his hand like it is some sort of precious gift.

And then it’s there again, that feeling. Aziraphale feels it tug on his heart, feels it like a string tying the two of them together. He watches as Crowley gently sets the tart down right by his side, away from the other goods, as if he’s saving it— savoring it. Aziraphale thinks in that moment that he may just kiss Crowley and put them out of their six-thousand year misery. 

Before the thought even fully forms or has a chance of turning into any sort of action, the sun disappears suddenly and they’re pitched into the dreary light of a cloudy afternoon. Aziraphale looks up just in time to see the dark clouds eclipse the sun. A moment later, the sky opens above them and the rain is pouring down on them.

Immediately, and to Aziraphale’s great surprise, the first thing Crowley does is reach out to protect the tart he had just placed by his side. He’s immediately shoving it back in the picnic basket and flipping the lid shut in a desperate attempt to protect the food that remains inside. It does help, some, but in the split second it takes him to do that, it dooms everything else to being soaked. The rain falls with a vendetta, as if it knows Crowley had been pointedly ignoring it for the last three days and is upset about it. Within a moment, their clothes are soaked, the blanket is soaked, and any prospect of a peaceful picnic in the park is utterly drowned. 

It’s less funny this time, though it doesn’t put Aziraphale out entirely. It’s a warm summer rain, so at least he’s not fighting off a shiver as he feel the rivulets of water track across his skin. Crowley, on the other hand, looks more than simply put out. He looks furious.

“Is God a bit terse with us?” He asks rhetorically, swiping a hand through his hair to push it away from his forehead. Despite the water cascading down around them, soaking them to their absolute cores, Aziraphale finds his mouth completely dry. “Seems a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

“I think the Almighty has better things to do than purposely ruin our picnic, Crowley.” Aziraphale responds evenly.

He’s not strictly against Crowley’s criticism of the Almighty— in fact, he often agrees with it, just quietly in his own mind— but if the Almighty _is_ in fact out to get them, the last thing they need is Crowley egging her on with his comments. 

With a glare sent to the sky above, Crowley grabs the picnic basket and stands, moving to the side of the blanket. Aziraphale follows after a moment, taking his edges of the blanket and folding them up, all their ruined food now held securely inside. Crowley hands Aziraphale the two edges of his side of the blanket, their fingers brushing again and Aziraphale finds that he’s a little disappointed for the rain this time.

“Well, back to the shop?” He offers in hopes that his disappointment doesn’t seep into his words.

Crowley has a change of clothes— or two, or three— at the bookshop so they could go straight back and switch into warmer clothes. In all likelihood, Crowley was going to drop back off into another extended nap while he waited for the rain to leave again. Aziraphale felt a jittery unease at the thought of it.

“Might as well.” Crowley replies, hoisting the picnic basket higher off the ground. “We can finish our meal there.”

“That sounds delightful.” Aziraphale agrees, hustling behind Crowley as they rush back towards the Bentley, sliding into the seats sopping wet and dripping.

Crowley groans as he adjusts, his wet clothes clinging to the seat as he tries. He tosses the picnic basket in the back and then turns to look at Aziraphale, his hair distinctly wetter than it had been a few days ago. He’s pushed it back off of his forehead and out of his eyes, but a few stubborn pieces still attempt to cling to the sides of his head, curling around his ears. It’s not much longer than it has been in the past decade or so, but something about the way the water pulls it down makes it look longer, and it opens up a yawning ache inside of Aziraphale as he thinks of all the different lengths and styles of hair he’s seen on Crowley over the years.

“You may very well like rain.” Crowley says, completely unaware of the thoughts Aziraphale is chasing. “But I hate it enough for the both of us.”

Aziraphale smiles to himself, biting back any retort as Crowley slams on the gas pedal and begins to steer them towards the bookshop. And, when Crowley lets out a disgruntled noise and gestures wildly at the rapidly clearing sky, Aziraphale just huffs a quiet laugh to himself. 

* * *

They make it about two steps outside the front door of the Ritz before the rain starts in a gentle drizzle. It’s late enough in the evening that the air is a little chilly as it nips at their cheeks, the rain causing a chill to run down Aziraphale’s spine. He glances up at the sky— realizing belatedly that it’s not simply dark because it’s evening, like he had assumed when they had arrived to dinner. A raindrop hits the tip of his nose.

Their dinner at the Ritz had been lovely— as all of their dinners together were, at the Ritz or elsewhere— and he’d been walking outside feeling both full and utterly content. Now, however, he just felt cold. 

Crowley is glowering besides him, glancing up at the sky himself before looking over at Aziraphale who has to stifle a shiver as another drop hits the nape of his neck. The rain itself isn’t unbearably cold, but the evening wind that kisses across his dampened skin is and he finds it’s the least pleasant experience they’ve had with rain in recent memory— and they’ve had a few. 

“Rotten luck.” Crowley comments, grabbing Aziraphale gently by the arm and guiding him to stand under a particularly large tree. It doesn’t give them much shelter from the increasing rain, but it’s more shelter than just standing on the sidewalk, so Aziraphale is thankful for it. They stand there for a moment, and Aziraphale waits for him to say something about God’s cruel sense of humor. Instead, he simply says, “I can bring the car ‘round if you want?”

“That’s quite alright, my dear.” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s hand affectionately where it still rests on his arm, warm and solid through the fabric of his jacket and shirt. Aziraphale hopes he’s allowed to hold onto this feeling for a long time. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

“Never said you weren’t.” Crowley murmurs in response. He’s not looking at Aziraphale, but his hand doesn’t move away, either. “But you are cold.”

As if on cue, Aziraphale shivers again as another gust of wind blows by. Despite being dressed in his usual outfit with multiple layers, he finds that the chill is able to seep through his jacket and all the way into his bones. It’s like the wind catches the open ends of his sleeves, billowing inside and kissing along his skin, piercing through his skin to nip at his bones. 

“I won’t be any less cold standing here waiting for you.” He reassures, brushing off his coat and straightening his bowtie, unfortunately dislodging Crowley’s hand in the process. He hopes the disappointment doesn’t show on his face. “but I appreciate the offer.”

Crowley makes a noise of acknowledgment and drops the topic, instead scanning the area ahead of them for the next safe space that they’d be able to hide from the rain. Aziraphale watches, able to see just a hint of his eyes from his position next to Crowley. In the careful lighting of the bookshop, his eyes usually look yellow. In the dim lighting of the city at night, they look like a molten gold, melting into something soft around the edges, giving subtle hints to the person he really is on the inside. The other patrons are scrambling around them, trying to find their own places of shelter as the rain picks up some. Aziraphale can hear the rain as it patters against the pavement is intricate patterns, painting pictures against it as it soaks the concrete below them. 

“I could miracle us an umbrella.” Crowley offers as a gust of wind blows the rain under the tree they’re currently hiding beneath and they both unconsciously take a step back. 

“No,” Aziraphale chastises gently. “We agreed, no miracles unless necessary.”

“Yeah, well…” Crowley makes a series of noncommital noises in the back of his throat that don’t actually form any words, but Aziraphale understands the point he’s trying to make just the same. 

A small smile fits to his lips as he thinks about that, wondering just when in the last six-thousand years he had learned to understand Crowley even when he was being distinctly indecipherable. He supposes it was inevitable, after all the time they spent together, but it still makes something warm bloom in the center of his chest. He stands there for another moment, allowing the warmth to grow as he considers the fact that Crowley knows him just as well, or perhaps even better. It only makes sense— it would be nearly impossible to not get to know someone you continued to bump into over the years— but there’s an intimate feeling about it that makes it weigh heavier than any other knowledge Aziraphale has stored inside.

“You know,” Aziraphale begins, stepping out from under the tree and glancing back to make sure Crowley was coming with him. He was, which shouldn’t come as any sort of surprise. If Crowley wasn’t in step with Aziraphale, he was leading him off on some new adventure, showing him some new side of the world. Aziraphale didn’t know how to move forward without Crowley there at his side, didn’t want to know. “Many people consider rain to be romantic. There are loads of books about getting caught in the rain with the person you love.”

“Well, most people aren’t cold-blooded demons.” Crowley replies, hunching his shoulders closer to his ears to make a point.

Well, he certainly had a point. Aziraphale scooted a step closer to him as they walked towards an overhang of the shop a few doors down, hoping his presence can provide some warmth to Crowley. The backs of their hands brush and suddenly Crowley’s cheeks and ears are tinted pink, a color so delicate Aziraphale can hardly see it through the cloudy light of the evening storm and the few streetlights close by. He chalks it up to the cold weather and glances away. 

They pause under a shop awning, backs pressed against the brick next to the door as another round of wind whips through the area. A few people scream from a street over, laughing to themselves as they presumably scatter in search of cover. At least, that’s what Aziraphale gathers from the clambering footsteps he hears. It makes him smile, despite the chill still clinging to him, claws dug deep into his bones. He turns to Crowley to comment about the humans.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale murmurs as he glances over at Crowley again— Crowley, who is outright shivering at this point.

Aziraphale doesn’t even think. He raises his hands towards Crowley’s neck, the fabric of a scarf appearing between his fingers before he has a chance to even really realize he’s performing a miracle to bring it here. He wraps it around Crowley’s wide-eyed form, tucking the ends gently underneath his coat and smoothing his hands down the length of it once he’s gotten it secured. 

“I thought you said no miracles.” Crowley murmured, probably meant to be an admonishment but his shoulders had sunk away from his ears slightly.

“Well,” Aziraphale took a step back, glancing down. The palms of his hand felt warm from Crowley’s body and he tried not to wonder how someone cold-blooded could feel so warm to the touch. It definitely wasn’t that electric spark, he tried to convince himself. “It hardly counts as a miracle.”

Crowley reaches up to touch the fabric where it wraps around his throat, glancing down at it. The edge of his mouth twists up into a wry smile as he levels Aziraphale with an exasperated glare. “Tartan, really?”

“I think it rather suits you.” Aziraphale smiles back, feeling as if his own cheeks and ears must be turning that faint pink color. The cold weather, he reminds himself steadily. 

They stand in silence for a few moments, simply looking at each other before Crowley lets out a sigh and gestures for them to continue on towards the car. The rain hasn’t picked up, still a gentle rainfall, just barely more than a drizzle, but for the distance they have to travel, it’s enough to be annoying. Given that they had decided to stop using miracles in the post-apocalyptic world, Crowley had been forced to start parking in actual parking spots, in parking lots. He’d grumbled about it at first, insisting that the convenience had to be worth the miracles, but Aziraphale had stood strong. He wanted Heaven and Hell to leave them alone permanently and was worried that their use of miracles would only keep them in the forefront of their minds. And, honestly, walking through the rain was hardly an inconvenience with Crowley by his side, chill or not. 

“Do you?” Crowley says suddenly, apropos of nothing and Aziraphale glances up at him with an eyebrow raised in question. “Consider it romantic, that is.”

“The rain?” Aziraphale asks, even though he understands the question Crowley is asking. Still. Crowley bobs his head in the affirmative. Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, thinking over his answer. “I do.” He begins, “With the right company, anyways. The rain alone isn’t particularly romantic, though I do still love it.”

They see the parking lot open up in front of them, taking any potential cover away from them. Neither of them are quite as drenched as they had been at the picnic, but Aziraphale’s clothes are starting to stick to his skin, making his movements more cumbersome. 

“And what is—” Crowley makes another strangled noise before finishing his question with “right company?”

Maybe it’s a six-thousand year old instinct or maybe it’s nothing that complicated. Maybe it’s just simple fear— fear of exposing his heart, fear of being rejected. Either way, the first thing that Aziraphale’s mind tells him to do is to lie, brushing off the question and changing the subject. But he doesn’t want to be afraid, and he’s certainly more than willing to get rid of those six-thousand year old instincts. The only few things from his six-thousand years on Earth that he wants to remember are the things that involve Crowley. That’s when he realizes that it’s most likely something much more simple: the fact that neither of them had ever been good with words. Neither of them had ever mastered the art of putting words to their feelings or expressing what they keep in their hearts.

They’d mastered plenty of things, but emotional honesty had never been one of them. 

“Well, you, of course, dear boy.” Aziraphale exhales, his words so quiet that he wonders if Crowley even heard him at all over the sound of the rain beating down on their shoulders. “Nobody else I’d rather share an umbrella with.”

Crowley stops walking entirely, turning to face Aziraphale. The rain has slicked his face and his sunglasses staunchly refuse to stay put on the bridge of his nose— a bold move on their part, truthfully— slipping down further with each second and exposing more and more of his eyes.

Their eyes meet across the rain dampened parking lot, the fading lights of the city reflecting in Crowley’s glasses, and Aziraphale feels the air being sucked straight out of his lungs. Fickle corporeal body, he thinks, but he’s thankful for it, too. After spending milennia reading romance novels and depictions of love, he rather enjoys having a human body with a heart that races as Crowley raises his hand and reaches towards him. He likes having a body whose breath catches in his throat, whose fingers tremble in anticipation. He loves experiencing all of these things himself.

Even loves experiencing the disappointment that rolls through him, starting from his heart and settling deep into his gut when Crowley pulls his hand away without touching him, using it instead to push the glasses further up his nose.

Aziraphale supposes he should expect that. He’d spent six-thousand years drawing a clear boundary between the two of them and, truth be told, Crowley had never breached that line. He might have drawn close to it, might have pleaded with Aziraphale to cross it, but he never even considered crossing it himself. And maybe that’s fair, Aziraphale realizes as Crowley pulls the keys to the Bentley out of his pocket and gestures with a weak nod of the head, the person who drew the line should be the one to cross it.

Swallowing, Aziraphale picks up his pace and closes the small distance between them and the Bentley, pulling open the passenger door and sliding in. He’s not as wet as last time, but he still finds it hard to slide comfortably into his normal position in the car. Or perhaps, he wonders idly, it’s the weight of his stomach down in his feet that makes it so much harder to move.

“Still think She’s got it out for us.” Crowley murmurs as he twists the key in the ignition. He’s not looking at Aziraphale. In fact, he’s determinedly not looking at Aziraphale, clearly putting all of his effort towards looking out the windshield despite the fact that they’re not yet moving. “But‘m always happy to share an umbrella with you, too.”

It’s not quite what Aziraphale wanted, but it’s probably more than he deserves. He smiles brightly at Crowley, realizing that, for the first time, Crowley is smudging the line drawn between them, welcoming the idea of erasing it completely instead of forcing either one of them to cross it. Aziraphale welcomes that idea, too.

So he reaches across the distance and lays a hand gently along Crowley’s knee. Crowley allows it to stay there for the entire drive home.

* * *

Aziraphale was starting to think that the Almighty was, in fact, doing this on purpose.

Every time he and Crowley left to try and go anywhere, the rain would start to pour down around them. Rain clouds which had not been there mere moments before would open up above them, dousing them like a cold bucket of water to the face when sleeping. Aziraphale had spent a decent amount of time pondering this.

“Do you think it’s punishment?” He asked finally, turning away from the bookshop window to look at Crowley who was pretending to scroll through his phone.

In truth, he’d been watching Aziraphale, no doubt trying to gauge what was going on inside his mind for the last few minutes. Aziraphale had been able to feel the weight of his gaze. “Pretty tame for punishment.” he offers. “Considering we went and thwarted her life’s work. Not nearly enough lightning bolts, no ground splitting open.”

“Well, we don’t know that for certain.” Aziraphale said pointedly ignoring the last bit. He wasn’t sure what it would look like if God decided to smite them, but the humans were rarely right in their depictions of divine interventions so he assumed they were likely incorrect on this, too. “The Ineffable Plan—”

“Yeah, yeah, can’t be known, I get it, angel.” Crowley waved a hand at him with a fond roll of the eyes. “Regardless, it doesn’t seem much like punishment. More like— more like a lesson.”

“A lesson?” Aziraphale echoed, turning back around towards the window.

Silence fell around them again while he wondered what it was the Almighty could be trying to teach them. While God made no secrets that she played dice with the universe, Aziraphale couldn’t believe that her lesson was something so complicated. His first thought was that she was trying to keep them from going out and enjoying the world that they had saved, but that didn’t sit right either. He was perfectly content in his bookshop with Crowley by his side. If anything, by raining out all of their plans, she was forcing them to spend _more_ time together in enclosed spaces, forcing them to do _more_ intimate things away from the rest of the world.

It seemed preposterous to think, but maybe they had been meant to thwart the Great Plan all along. Maybe they were meant—

“Do you think it’ll go away anytime soon?” Aziraphale cut his own train of thought off swiftly, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to feel more put together than he was. 

“I expect it’ll last until we learn whatever lesson She’s trying to teach us.” Crowley grumbles, slinking lower in the couch cushions. His long legs stretched out before him, ankles crossing under the coffee table in front of the couch. The position made him look even taller than he was. “Of course She can’t be bothered to give us any bloody clues.”

 _Had_ she given them any clues?

Immediately, his mind runs back to all those romance novels and he physically shakes his head to try and dislodge the thought. That, above all else, was utter preposterous. He was an angel— even if he wasn’t in Heaven’s good graces— and Crowley was a demon— even if he were far too kind to be any good at it. They were hereditary enemies— a position decided upon by the Almighty herself! Surely she couldn’t be leading them through some romantic trope, trying to draw the two of them together. The idea of it was just— it was _absurd_. 

“Well, I’m sure we’ll figure it out in no time.” Aziraphale replies, even though he doesn’t feel at all sure. 

Crowley grumbles in response, dropping his head back against the cushions. “I’m sure she won’t mind if we take our time.” He sneers up at the ceiling of the bookshop, but it’s clearly meant to be directed even higher than that. “She’s no doubt having a lovely time, soaking me as she is. Laughing to herself, I’m sure.”

“Well,” Aziraphale’s mind is still distracted, lingering on the whole romance bit that he’s trying to forget. He can hardly be blamed when he’s too preoccupied to think of his next words before he says them. “Can you blame her? You do look rather fetching like that.”

It takes a long few seconds of silence before Aziraphale’s brain catches up to the moment at hand, studiously shoving the romance idea to the back of his mind because it has a new crisis that needs immediate attention. He stiffens in his seat, the words hanging thick between them in the air. For a moment, he’s incredibly thankful that his back is to Crowley, because he can’t possibly imagine what his face might look like and he’s not so certain he’d be able to handle actually seeing it. 

“That is to say…” He begins, but the rest of the sentence doesn’t come to him. There wasn’t anything else he was trying to say with that sentence. He hadn’t been trying to say anything, really. It was just an idle though to fill the silence and to propel the conversation forward.

But now it’s out there and he’s thinking of the way the longer pieces of Crowley’s hair cling to his face and show off the sharp edges of his jaw. He’s thinking of how his usually tight clothes are somehow even tighter— just the tiniest bit, but it’s noticeable—as they wrap around his body. But more than anything else, he’s thinking about Crowley’s eyes and the way his brave sunglasses keep revealing them to him, the water preventing them from staying in place.

These were all things he’d thought about a lot since that first day nearly a week ago, but he hadn’t ever intended to put them into words. He wasn’t going to put them into words now, either, but he was certainly closer than he wanted to be to revealing his thoughts. 

“Er…” Crowley says when the silence surrounds them again. Aziraphale wishes briefly for just a few moments to separate the two of them. But it’s raining out and there’s nowhere for either of them to go. He wonders, again, what Her plot might be. “Thanks?”

“I— I— I just mean—” Aziraphale starts again, only to find that the sentence still doesn’t feel like coming to him. He sighs. “The way your hair falls when it’s wet— It’s, well, rather fetching, as I said.”

“Right, yeah, you did say that.” Crowley replies, sounding equally at a loss for words. 

Aziraphale glances up above— an old habit of looking to Heaven for guidance. He no longer wants their guidance and would not take it if given, but it’s such an old habit that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he’s already glancing back down at his hands in his lap. He needs to say something, needs to find a way to break the tension between the two of them. Unfortunately, nothing is coming to mind. His brain is entirely empty except for the feeling of awkwardness and the look of Crowley, outside the Ritz, glasses revealing his eyes and hair curling by his ears.

“What would you say,” Crowley begins, startling Aziraphale and making him feel like jumping out of his skin. “To watching a movie tonight? Technically, it’ll take a miracle— literally— to get your old technology to work with Netflix, but I’m sure we can get away with one small miracle.”

“A movie.” Aziraphale echoes, gripping onto the idea like a buoy. Crowley isn’t mad at him, isn’t making excuses to leave. In fact, he’s making excuses to _stay_. “That would— that sounds lovely, yes. I’d quite enjoy that.”

“Great.” Crowley says a little awkwardly, but it’s miles better than Aziraphale expected. He hears Crowley shift back into something that at least resembles a normal sitting pattern. “If you make some tea, I’ll get to work on the TV.”

“Why don’t we— that is, there’s a perfectly good TV upstairs. And a— a bed. Just—” He rushes through his sentence, nearly forgetting to breathe. “just in case you happen to want to sleep again! You are staying the night, yes?”

Surprising Aziraphale, Crowley’s response to that is a yes. “Are you _trying_ to kill me, angel?”

“Oh, heaven’s no, dear boy!” Aziraphale finally turns back around in his seat to look at Crowley. “By no means must you stay! I just figured— well, we’ve spent a lot of time together lately and— and the couch isn’t particularly comfortable…”

Crowley has pulled his legs underneath him, with his elbows propped on each knee and his head in his hands. He would look distressed if it weren’t for the slight shake of his shoulders to indicate that he is still laughing. “Right, no, of course. Yeah, I’ll stay the night. And a bed would be— would be nice. Yeah.”

It takes a moment for Crowley to settle, but when he does he lifts his gaze to meet Aziraphale’s. His eyes are uncovered, as they often are inside the bookshop when it’s just the two of them. Even though Aziraphale is getting used to seeing them so often, he still feels his breath hitch in his throat at the sight of them. He’s not certain he’s ever going to stop thinking they’re beautiful.

“I’ve made a whole mess of this conversation, haven’t I?” Aziraphale asked after a moment, a wry smile curling his own lip.

Crowley smiles openly back at him. “Nah. Just surprised me, s’all.”

Aziraphale can feel his own smile turning into something more genuine. “So, I’ll manage the tea and you’ll manage the TV? I believe that was our deal.”

“Right.” Crowley stands from the couch, taking a moment to stretch his limbs over his head. Aziraphale makes a point to look away. “I’ll just show myself upstairs. Unless…?”

“No, of course, go right on ahead, dear boy. I’ll be there shortly.” Aziraphale waves him off.

He’s only properly showed Crowley the upstairs flat once, but he’s certain that Crowley will have no difficulty finding his way to the only TV up there. The flat also has a small kitchen attached, but Aziraphale had miracled one onto the back of the bookshop years ago to save from having to go up and down the stairs every time he wanted tea (and to save from what could only be considered an endless stream of frivolous miracles— Gabriel didn’t see the necessity of tea in every day life, as it were). Over the years, the majority of Aziraphale’s kitchen supplies had made their way to the downstairs kitchen for his ease, so he didn’t immediately follow Crowley up into the flat above.

He found himself grateful for the temporary break as he filled the kettle and set it on the stove. He braced his hands on the counter next to the stove and dropped his head, taking a few deep breaths. His thoughts were getting away from him, they had to be. Things couldn’t be adding up the way Aziraphale thought they were, it just didn’t make any sense. 

It was the sheer amount of time that he and Crowley had been spending time together, he reasoned. He was used to seeing Crowley once every few decades for the most part, not every day straight for weeks on end. It was the raw ends of his nerves after six-thousand years and one failed apocalypse later, nothing more. He just needed to take some time to clarify his mind and to get his head back on straight. It was that simple, nothing more.

When the tea kettle whistled, Aziraphale poured them each a glass of tea and carried them carefully upstairs, reminding himself firmly that he just needed to keep his thoughts in order and everything would be fine. 

* * *

In the end, everything was not fine and the rain didn’t stop pouring. 

Not for long, anyways.

It did pause long enough to lull them into a false sense of security, thinking they’d have enough of a break in the weather to be able to hazard a walk through the park. They’d managed to park and even begin their loop around the park, stretching their legs and breathing in the fresh air before the rain came. Crowley, forever weary after the last week or so, had been keeping a critical eye on the sky, but even his glares weren’t enough to send away the coulds. The first drops had just started to fall when he took hold of Aziraphale’s elbow and guided him out of the onslaught.

It wasn’t until they came to a stop that Aziraphale realized where they were standing— in the bandstand where they’d stood opposite of each other on the day the world was supposed to end. A pang of guilt ran through his veins at the realization.

“What the bloody hell did we ever do to Her?” Crowley seethed, prowling around the bandstand, running his fingers through his slightly damp hair, tousling it slightly. “I get that She’s a bit peeved about the whole Great Plan bit, but this is just— it’s petty, angel!”

Aziraphale was stock-still, standing just at the entrance to the bandstand and watching Crowley’s anxious movements.

“I get that I pissed Her off with my questions,” He continued, stopping to brace his hands along the railing of the bandstand, glaring out into the rain. “But this time I really just wanted to bugger off and be uninvolved. She tried to get rid of me, and then when I actually _wanted_ to leave, She couldn’t let me go. How bloody hard is it to just let me live my own life down on this blasted planet?”

The thought hadn’t left Aziraphale’s mind, no matter how much he had tried to firmly shove it into some shadowed recess of his mind and steadfastly ignore it. As it were, he could now feel it unfurling in the back of his mind, tendrils reaching forward and latching onto him, dragging him down.

“What if that’s exactly what She’s trying to do?” Aziraphale breathes, clasping his hands behind his back as the pieces start to fall into place. 

“What?” Crowley whipped his head around to look at Aziraphale, his gaze inhibited by his sunglasses. 

“What if she’s trying to help you live your life?” Aziraphale repeats, his mind whirling.

“Right.” Crowley says dismissively, turning back to glaring at the rain. “If that’s the case, Her and I need to talk because I don’t consider getting rained out the ideal way to live my eternal life.”

Aziraphale is hardly listening. It had to be, right? No matter how improbable, he couldn’t think of a better explanation. If the Almighty really _was_ punishing them, it was likely to have more hell fire, raindrops of holy water, something to keep them permanently apart, not permanently together. Aziraphale glanced up at the sky above, wondering if She was there, watching him.

There was a certain way that Aziraphale needed to broach this topic, a specific way to word his idea to get Crowley to listen instead of rolling his eyes and shaking it off immediately. It was going to require a very exact amount of finesse.

With this in mind, Aziraphale did what was perhaps the only thing he should not have done. With absolutely no finesse and no forethought he blurted out, “I think She’s trying to get us together.”

He could see the moment Crowley’s spine went stiff, his shoulders rigid. He didn’t push off of the railing, but he did crane his neck around to stare incredulously at Aziraphale. “What was that, angel?”

“Well, it’s like I said the other day. There are books— stories, you see, loads of them, of people being caught in the rain with the person they love.” He stumbles on, any amount of coherency escaping him. He was left to rely on the fact that Crowley knew him inside and out and had six-thousand years of experience deciphering all the things Aziraphale meant to say, even when they weren’t the things he was actually saying.

“Romantic, yeah, you mentioned that.” Crowley agrees, his tone carefully neutral as he waits for Aziraphale to continue.

For a moment, Aziraphale fears that he’s wrong. That he’s somehow made this whole thing up in his head and is now about to piss God off as well as lose the only other being he’s determined to keep in his life. 

“It’s just— if she were punishing us, wouldn’t you think she’d be, I don’t know, keeping us apart? Or harming us in some way? Rather than keeping us _together_.” He knows that it makes sense in his head, but it seems thinner and more fragile when he puts it out into the air between them, like it’s more likely to break. 

Crowley considers this, finally releasing his grip on the railing and turning around to prop his hip against it instead. He stares at Aziraphale from across the bandstand, eyebrows risen above the rims of his sunglasses.

Aziraphale desperately wishes that Crowley would say something, but he isn’t saying anything. His lips are slightly parted as he continues to consider Aziraphale, and Aziraphale finds that he cannot tolerate the silence. He presses on. “Last time we were here—” he gestures largely around them to indicate the bandstand, “— you said we were on our side. You were right, of course, but I couldn’t admit it. And now that we’re here, we really are on _our_ side. I want us to be on our side. I want— I—” He sighs and wrings his hands together in front of his stomach. “I’ve really rather enjoyed all this time we’ve spent together in the rain.”

“You’re not making any sense.” Crowley finally says, his voice hushed.

“No, I suppose I’m not.” Aziraphale agrees. “Just forget it.”

“No.” Crowley pops off of the railing, walking until he was standing in front of Aziraphale, “No, angel. What are you trying to say?”

What was he trying to say, indeed? It was a good question and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he had an answer to that. He hadn’t solidly put words to the ideas he was trying to express, but he didn’t have much of a choice but to try. He was reminded, again, at six-thousand years of saying the wrong thing. He’d gotten through it before— _they_ had gotten through it before, but he desperately wanted to say the right thing this time.

“If the future really is ours, as it appears to be,” He begins and thinks it’s a pretty solid beginning. It’s a good building block for him to build from. He takes a deep breath. “I want to spend it with you. I want it to continue being days like the ones we’ve had— dinners, nights in, movies. I want us to never be separated again. Crowley, my dear boy, the only thing I want out of this future is you.”

“No books?” Crowley breathes.

Aziraphale huffs out a small laugh, the tension dissipating from his shoulders slightly. “You and books.” He amends. “Though I do hope you won’t make me choose.”

“I’d never,” Crowley says with all the sincerity in the world. Aziraphale can’t see his eyes, but he doesn’t need to. He _knows_ Crowley, understands him on the deepest level. As much as he would love to see Crowley’s eyes, he doesn’t need to in order to feel the genuine emotions behind his words.

“I’d choose you,” Aziraphale whispers into the space between them. “If you made me choose. I’d pick you.”

“Angel,” Crowley groans, low in his throat, like he can’t possibly bear the emotions swirling around inside of him. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure what to say back to that, which ends up utterly fine given that Crowley doesn’t give him a chance _to_ say anything back to that. He reaches forward, gently, but with determination, his fingers sliding tentatively along Aziraphale’s cheek, palm coming to cup the back of his neck. Aziraphale feels that same jittery sensation as before, the fluttering in his stomach as he holds his breath in anticipation. That feeling that seems to exist between them swells and grows, bordering on unbearable. And then— and then Crowley kisses him, soft and sweet, and the feeling bursts, filling Aziraphale’s heart and then overflowing. His own hand reaches up to cup Crowley’s cheek, his thumb stroking across the snake tattoo just below his temple.

Neither of them notice at first, but the rain stops around them.

It takes a moment for Crowley to pull away, his expression bordering on watery. Aziraphale is reminded of finding him in the pub after his bookshop had burned down, but he knows that this is a happy occasion instead. 

“Angel,” Crowley says again, his voice wavering slightly. “That was—”

Aziraphale doesn’t wait for him to put it into words. They’ve never been good with words anyways. He surges forward to kiss Crowley again, tasting the flavor of his own truths reflected on Crowley’s lips. He doesn’t need to hear Crowley say it to know that it’s true, that it comes from his heart. Someone had told him that demons couldn’t love, and they had been wholly wrong. 

When they pull apart the second time, they finally notice that the rain has stopped.

“Look,” Aziraphale points, “A rainbow!”

Crowley laughs out loud, his fingers trailing down from Aziraphale’s neck to his shoulder, his elbow, his wrist and then finally settling in Aziraphale’s own hand, clasping tightly. 

“She actually did it.” Crowley chokes out between laughs. 

“I think,” Aziraphale says with a fond smile, “we owe her a thank you.”

“You know what?” Crowley raises his head, using his free hand to push his glasses up to the top of his head. “I think you’re right. For once, she was listening. And if it’s the only time she listens to me in all of eternity— well, I’m okay with that.”

Aziraphale thinks he should probably say something back to that, but Crowley is tugging him close and pressing their bodies together and any thought Aziraphale might have had is chased away by his lips. And Aziraphale finds he’s okay with that, too.


End file.
